The Day After
by clair beaubien
Summary: Missing/Tag scene to S10E3 Soul Survivor. "I'm just gonna grab my brother some cholesterol, and then I'm gonna get drunk." After saving Dean, Sam comes back to the Bunker with fast food and groceries.
1. Chapter 1

_Never give up. Today is hard, tomorrow will be worse, but the day after tomorrow will be sunshine ~_ Jack Ma

* * *

Missing/tag scene to Soul Survivor.

Sam let himself into the Bunker from the garage. He carried a brown paper grocery bag in his left arm and the handles of an overfull blue plastic bag labeled ' _Best Burgers by Gumm!'_ in the hand of his braced right arm.

The library and map room were dark, lit only from the lights in the hallway. No Cas, no Dean. He didn't call out. He didn't want to talk to anybody.

He went to the kitchen, pushed the light switch on with his shoulder, set his bags onto the closest table then sighed and looked around. The sink was full of dishes, the fridge was empty of food, the trash can overflowed with coffee filters and fast food containers, and a layer of dust covered everything.

He'd clean it tomorrow. Dean hated the kitchen being a mess, Sam would clean it tomorrow.

Maybe the day after.

He turned back to the table. His shoulder ached and the pain in his elbow burned down into his forearm and fingers. He massaged his arm but it didn't help. He knew he should take an extra dose of extra-strength painkillers, but he also knew that he'd be dosing himself with more than enough whiskey soon enough. No point in wasting the painkillers.

A footstep behind him made him turn. Dean had come into the kitchen. They both stopped.

"Oh," Dean said, "I didn't – "

"I – yeah, I -" Sam gestured to the bags on the table. "I just -"

"Yeah. Yeah." Dean turned away and walked toward the door.

"Hey, uh – " Sam picked up the blue plastic bag and held it toward Dean who had turned back. "I – here."

"Oh," Dean took the bag. "Yeah. I – yeah."

"Yeah," Sam echoed. He clenched and stretched his right hand a few times. It didn't help the pain. "I thought -"

"Yeah, thanks. Are you –?"

"Uh, no," Sam waved a hand at the bag of groceries. "I'm gonna – and then -"

"Eat?"

"Drink."

Dean stared into his bag a moment, then bundled the handles closed in his hand. "You know -" He stopped and made a vague gesture to his arm.

"I know."

"Yeah," Dean said. He gestured with the bag of food. "You should eat."

Sam thought of eating, pictured eating anything. It turned his stomach. "Maybe tomorrow." Maybe the day after.

Dean nodded and lifted the bag a little, "Well, thanks." He turned to the door to leave and Sam turned to the groceries to put them away. The sooner the groceries were taken care of and the sooner Dean was taken care of the sooner Sam could drink himself into a leaden sleep that hopefully wouldn't let any dreams through.

Putting the groceries away seemed a herculean task, though, even if he'd had two working arms. He stared at the bag, waiting for his brain and his body to connect and remember the simple process of putting cans on shelves and perishables in the fridge.

Then Dean was there. He set the fast food bag on the table and began taking the groceries out of the paper bag.

"Hey, no, don't. I can –" Sam said, his brain and his body reconnecting enough to put a hand out toward Dean. But Dean didn't notice, or didn't care, or didn't feel like answering. He filled his arms with the groceries and had them put away in a few minutes while Sam only watched and didn't even try to think of anything beyond the fact that Dean was back. He had Dean back.

"Thanks," he finally said, tried to say, when Dean was down to the last two things to put away, a carton of milk and a box of cereal. But he didn't put them away.

"You should eat."

Sam folded the grocery bag for something to do that wasn't looking at Dean. "Your food's gonna be cold."

Dean didn't move, didn't answer. Sam looked up and they stared at each other a beat or two.

"You should eat," Dean said again and it wasn't an order or a request, it was more of a need, he needed Sam to eat.

Sam needed the same thing. "So do you."

Dean sighed and his shoulders dropped in resignation. He set the milk and cereal on the table and picked up his bag of food. "Thanks," he said again, and that sounded, too, like a need, or a question, or a prop holding a door open that he wanted Sam to walk through.

"Yeah," Sam answered. "I'm glad – " He swallowed, trying to think if he was glad of too many things, or not enough things, or just one thing in particular. "Yeah."

"Yeah," Dean said. He walked up the couple of steps that led to the kitchen door and the hallways and bedrooms beyond. "You should eat," he said one last time before walking away.

Sam stuck the folded grocery bag into the paper bag holder next to the fridge and put away the milk and cereal. "Maybe tomorrow."

Maybe the day after.

The End.


	2. Chapter 2

The cheeseburgers Sam brought were the best cheeseburgers Dean ever tasted.

And the first ones that ever stuck in his throat.

He was back, he was safe, he was in his room, on his bed, eating junk food, cheeseburgers, fries, and a chocolate milkshake.

Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't turned evil. Hadn't _become_ Evil.

Hadn't hunted Sammy through this Bunker, through their home, like a snake hunting a mouse.

But he had.

He'd done all that and worse, and the first thing Sam did after saving him from himself was to buy him a bag full of junk food.

Now Dean was hiding in his room eating that food and Sam was out in the Bunker – what? Drinking? Miserable? Alone?

All three?

Probably.

Probably somebody should check on him.

Cas had left to take care of his 'female in the car' problem, so if somebody was going to check on Sam, it was going to have to be Dean.

Well, Cas said that Sam didn't 'want a divorce' and Sam hadn't been grouchy out in the kitchen a little while ago, so –

So –

Well, Dean had his junk food garbage to throw out, so that was an excuse to leave his room and go be around Sam.

Because maybe he needed an excuse to be around Sam right now.

He packed up the wrappers and cartons and opened his bedroom door. There were no lights from the library. There was no sound from anywhere. No music, no computer, no pacing, no cursing. Nothing. He headed for the kitchen, avoiding the 'stand there while I bash this hammer through your skull' hallway, but Sam wasn't in the kitchen, so he tossed his garbage and tried the library.

There Sam was, at the table, the only light coming from one light in the map room. He was sitting in what was usually 'Dean's chair', holding an open bottle of whiskey in his hand, staring at it. His laptop was on the table in front of him. Whatever he was feeling, if he wasn't eating he shouldn't be drinking, so Dean took the bottle away from him.

"Enough, maybe?"

"No," Sam said and took the bottle back. He was exhausted, with his dark eyes and bowed shoulders, deep breaths that were bordering on stifled yawns. He couldn't have slept anytime recently. He _wouldn't_ have slept, not enough, not while Dean was in danger, and he had added to that being abducted and beaten and threatened with death, all the while having one arm strapped in a contraption that looked like Bigfoot's seatbelt.

"Cas didn't -?" Dean asked, gesturing to the contraption still imprisoning Sam's arm.

Sam shrugged that shoulder. "Didn't want - _don't_ want – no."

This was the point, usually, Dean would lean against the table and tell Sam – _something._ The words always, usually, came by themselves. Comfort, advice, affection, encouragement – the words always, _usually_ , came automatic and honest.

Now all that came to mind were the heinous things he'd said to Sam in the dungeon. Everything Sam feared, all the things that terrified him, Dean had used to rip him open, deep and lasting and repugnant.

What could he say to make up for that? Where did he even start to look for that apology?

"You should – " Sam kicked out the closest chair. "You know…"

Sit. Sam wanted him to sit. Sit and – what? Dean didn't know. But he sat, "Uh, yeah," because Sam wanted him to. He sat in a chair that felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable even though every chair around this table was exactly the same.

And sitting next to Sam was awkward and uncomfortable even though this – _this_ – together, in the dark, in the quiet, on the mend, should be, _was usually_ , the most familiar place for them to be.

Now it was –

"You – um - ?" Sam asked. His non-imprisoned thumb got jerked in the close-enough direction of the kitchen. "Because there's – you know – "

"You?"

"No."

"Then no."

"Yeah."

Now, sitting next to Sam was awkward and uncomfortable.

He should apologize. Sam deserved an apology. Sam deserved an apology the size of Jupiter. How many times all these years had Sam apologized to him? Asked to be forgiven? How many times had Dean made Sam beg to be forgiven for things that weren't even his fault?

Now it was his turn to apologize to Sam.

How hard could it be?

Damn freaking hard, that's how hard.

This wasn't a _let Sam drive the car for a while_ apology. It wasn't a _do Sam's laundry up to and including putting it away for him_ apology. It couldn't be fixed with an ' _I'm such an idiot I can't believe you still love me'_ hug.

What he did to Sam, what he said - more than the threat of a hammer through his brain - the poison words Dean had ripped into Sam with, those needed the big apology. The full apology.

He needed to say _I'm sorry._

Be even though he felt it, he meant it, until he _said_ it, said those two words to Sam, who knew what Sam was thinking.

He took a breath and cleared his throat and said, "You know, Sam," just as Sam cleared his throat and took a breath and said, "Hey, I was thinking," and they both stopped and both motioned each other to go first, until Dean waved Sam on, "No, go ahead."

"Yeah, no, I just, I thought, when you were – when you were –" Sam gestured in the general, close-enough, direction of the bedrooms. "I was thinking – maybe –" he swallowed like he was nervous, or he was going to be sick or – " – maybe we – we could –"

Or he'd finally decided on that divorce.

Well, did Dean deserve anything else?

"Sam – you know, whatever you want –"

Then all in a rush as though he thought he'd lose his nerve, Sam said, " _I downloaded 'Guardians of the Galaxy, I thought maybe you'd want to watch it when you were done eating. Watch it with me, I mean_."

All thoughts of apology died in Dean's mind. All thoughts _period_ died momentarily. Sam wanted to watch a movie with him. Dean'd been anticipating – dreading – separation, divorce, rancor, disgust. He'd been getting up the nerve to make his apology and it turned out his little brother had been getting up the nerve to ask if they could watch a movie together.

He didn't want a divorce. He didn't want an apology.

He wanted his brother.

"Yeah, 'course I want to watch it with you," Dean said. "I didn't realize it came out online already."

"It didn't – I mean – I found a bootleg copy. A good one." Sam pushed the whisky bottle away and pulled his computer closer and one-handed he got the movie started. "Anyway, I downloaded it."

Sam moved the computer closer to Dean. Dean moved his chair closer to Sam.

He was an idiot, but his brother still loved him.

The End.


End file.
